


Decisions

by themillersdaughtersmistress



Series: took time (to let you know) [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cedric Diggory Lives, Draco Malfoy-centric, F/M, Family, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, Kingsley Shacklebolt-centric, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Kingsley Shacklebolt, angst for all couples!, itsequality.gif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 00:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themillersdaughtersmistress/pseuds/themillersdaughtersmistress
Summary: Kingsley and Draco each make a choice.---Harry Potter had come back, clutching an unconscious Narcissa and a nearly insensate Cedric Diggory, and shouted to the audience what Crouch had told them would happen—You-Know-Who had returned.  Kingsley sunk lower into his chair, headache starting to pound behind his eyes. Even with all of that, the day would not be half as bad if he hadn’t had ample opportunity to prevent it from happening.





	Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note: we're nearly to the first drarry kiss - Harry's just stubborn. I do plan on them getting together though, don't worry!

There were many contendors for the worst day of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s life. The days his parents died, however complicated his feelings towards them, were each powerful candidates. The first time he lost someone under his command. Learning the Potters had died. Today, though—

Today was the worst day of his life.

He shifted. The silence in the Hogwarts hospital wing was stifling. Kingsley didn’t remember it being this stifling when he was a student here. Even with the breathing of six other beings here, it felt like it was wrapping around his skull and squeezing. He glanced over at the bed directly next to his chair. Mitchell Orvan was always shorter than him, but this was truly the first time he’d ever seemed _small_. The bruises, from curses hitting hard against the warded parts of his uniform, stood out against the white short-sleeved shirt Poppy had changed him into.

The idiot had left a note—a _note_ —that said simply:

_Mad-Eye an escaped Azkaban Death Eater in disguise. Going to Hogwarts to arrest him._

When he’d managed to get to Scotland, through the wards and castle walls and crowds there for the final Triwizard Task, Mitchell had already been dueling the imposter in the middle of the arena, just before the maze entrance. Fudge had been gawping at the scene, apparently too stunned to do anything about the accused madman in a bloody school. Dumbledore, at least, had the good sense to throw up sheild charms around the spectators. Kingsley and Dawlish had joined the duel, and managed to subdue the escapee, but not before Mitchell had been hit on an unwarded part of his body.

He’d gone down, unconscious instantly, and the impersonator went down from Dawlish’s Stunning spell not a second later. Kingsley had felt like an idiot, but at least partly useful as they bound him and dragged him off to an unused room under the stadium, forcing him out of his polyjuice-d disguise. Dumbledore and the Potions Master, Severus Snape, had followed—Snape with a bottle of Veritaserum Kingsley had decided to overlook the legality of. Barty Crouch Junior had easily started babbling under it, and what he said made Kingsley's blood run cold.

_“Tonight, the Dark Lord will return,” Crouch crowed, eyes wild. “And he’ll use the boy’s blood to do it. Mudbloods and blood traitors forced to—”_

_“I’ll thank you not to use such language,” Dumbledore had interrupted._

_“It won’t matter,” Crouch told him jubilantly. “All those who oppose him will know this. He even has the perfect traitor to show it. The portkey will have taken the winners by now.”_

_“Whatever you’ve done with Potter, with the contestants—” Dawlish had started._

_“Oh no, not them,” Crouch continued interrupting. “My Lord will kill them easily. Your traitor of a Dark Arts Consultant.”_

_“What,” Kingsley said lowly._

_“You,” Crouch blinked incredulously, and his manic smile grew. “Your department wasn’t investigating Alastor Moody to begin with, as the little Mitch Orvan implied, then? Was_ attacking _me, was her running into the maze after the contestants, not_ sanctioned _?”_

 _“What did you do with Consultant Black?” Kingsley snarled. He stepped towards Crouch, wand out, before Dawlish caught him around the arm and spun him around. He marched them a few paces away before Kingsley jerked free. “Do_ not _touch me, right now.”_

 _Dawlish set his jaw. “Then get a hold of yourself, Shacklebolt,” he whispered bluntly. “You aren’t_ _going to lose your head in the field—for the first time since you_ joined _, I might add—because your little work romance might get roughed up by whoever his accomplice is.”_

_“Whoever—” Kingsley replied hotly._

_“He’s mad,” Dawlish shrugged uncaringly. “You can’t honestly believe one mad captive is going to somehow bring back a dead man? Even if it is You-Know-Who.”_

_And then they heard the screams from the audience above them._

Harry Potter had come back, clutching an unconscious Narcissa and a nearly insensate Cedric Diggory, and shouted to the audience what Crouch had told them would happen—You-Know-Who had returned.Kingsley sunk lower into his chair, headache starting to pound behind his eyes. Even with all of that, the day would not be half as bad if he hadn’t had ample opportunity to prevent it from happening.

During the Spring break, he and a few others from the DMLE had decided to visit Alastor in his new post, meeting in Hogsmeade. Kingsley had dragged along Mitchell and Narcissa. Mitch had been only a few months into the training program when Alastor had left, and thus wouldn’t have come if Kingsley hadn’t insisted. He’d brought Narcissa as well, citing the fact that she was a part of the department, too— _“Only half the time, darling; the other half is claimed by the Unspeakables.”_ —but really wanting her to meet one of his most important mentors in a neutral setting.

Mitch had seemed uncomfortable with the man, and Narcissa forcibly polite, but the others—Tonks and Dawlish and Copperhead and Scrimgeour—had laughed and talked right along with him for over two hours, so Kingsley had passed it off as nothing. In the days following, Kingsley had passed it off as still nothing, even as Mitch frowned and was caught scribbling more notes than he even had in school.

A week after the visit, Mitchell had cornered him in his office, Narcissa at his shoulder. He’d lain out his theories about something being wrong with Alastor—Imperious, Confundus, Polyjuice—and possible reasons for why, where they would have gotten news of their meeting, and how to impersonate someone so near the original, and near Albus Dumbledore himself.

He’d gaped at them in desbelief. _Half of us have worked with him for years!_ _Don’t you think someone, of the half of a department trained for this, would have noticed if one of the most well known aurors in history was being impersonated_? Narcissa had spoken up then. Something had been wrong since the Cup, she’d said. Something had shifted in the channels of the underground she kept an ear to. Kingsley had asked if she wary of Alastor on principle. _There’s something incredibly Dark being prepared for, Kingsley_ , she’d responded, _I’ve gone to Severus Snape, and to visit Lucius in Azkaban, and_ —

He’d dismissed them both, at that.

Over the next few weeks, leading from spring to summer, he and Narcissa had somewhat regained trust, but it was brittle. He’d apologized, and Narcissa had said she shouldn’t have expected to convince him without proof. Kingsley had readily agreed to back them with everything he had if they could find even a shred of proof. She’d smiled easily at that. He should have seen this coming from a horizon away.

He hadn’t known Alastor Moody during the first war, but the reputation of the Auror department sat on his shoulders, and it was one of the main reasons he’d joined the Auror program and not sought out the fabled Order of the Phoenix. There existence was barely more hidden than that of Death Eaters, and word had spread easily about their activity. After their last year—after officially being certified as wizards, after sailing across the lake to the proud smiles of the Headmaster and their Heads of House—Mitchell had pestered him on the train ride home. Pestering him about what he would do, in the coming war, whether he’d try and find the Order, try to join them. He’d been only thirteen at the time.

Kingsley had scoffed, and said that vigilantism was against the law. And what was the point, since wizarding Britain had a perfectly servicable law enforcement department?

 _Apparently there was a lot of point_ , Kingsley thought. He’d been wholly unable to stop Fudge from willfully ignoring the testimony of both Hogwarts champions, declaring Dumbledore a crackpot old fool, and moving Crouch to have his soul sucked out as soon as possible. Dawlish had agreed with him, of course.

He glanced over at the other four occupants of the hospital wing. Cedric had been released early, since he was only terrified and not injured. Harry Potter had been cut, a jagged thing that stood out a sickly red against light brown skin— _“By his accomplice,” Dawlish had said easily. “Black, most likely. Wipe that look off your face, Shacklebolt, we’ll catch him.”_ —And Narcissa…

Narcissa had minor nerve damage, Poppy had told him, from the Crutiatus Curse. Draco Malfoy had paled at that, and had refused to leave his mother’s side. He’d bunched up a blanket under his head, and curled in a fetal position in the chair beside her bed. The final occupant of the room was a great black dog, bigger than Kingsley had ever seen, curled up over the Potter boy’s kneecaps. Two others, a tall redhead and fretful young black girl, had been at Potter’s bedside earlier, but Poppy had shooed them out, citing the fact that they had neither unconscious parents nor a fellow auror to guard in the wing.

Kingsley abruptly shoved himself to his feet. He’d made a mistake, yes, and he would spend as long as he had to making up for it—but now was not the time to mope. If Potter and Diggory were to be believed, and Kingsley did believe them, then one of the most terrifying Dark Wizards in a hundred years had returned tonight. He’d returned, and Fudge’s administration would rather stick their heads in the sand than do something about it.

He stalked out of the hospital wing, striding through the dark halls of his alma mater down a path he’d only traversed once. Portait’s eyes followed him in the darkness, some running ahead of him through the frames, but he did not stop. The gargoyle guarding the headmasters entrance was the same as it had been nearly twenty years ago—stone, unyielding.

“Tell Dumbledore I must speak with him,” Kingsley said. A stony blink, and then a slow shimmy, and then the gargoyle went back to it’s unmoving. He scowled at it, and opened his mouth to demand again. The staircase swinging into view stopped him. Belying the tone of his demand, he hesitantly climbed them, taking the time to consider what he was about to do. Insubordination, at the very least—under some ministers this would be tantamount to treason. He could be fired; he could be Kissed. _It’s what I should have done the first time around, and definitely need to now_ , he told himself firmly, and knocked firmly on the door of the headmaster’s office.

It swung open easily for him. Dumbledore looked up from the papers strewn across his desk, standing behind it. He looked tired. Kingsley closed the door behind him

“Yes, Auror Shacklebolt?” Dumbledore asked curiously.

“You,” Kingsley spoke, and then swallowed, and forced himself to continue. “During the war with You-Know-Who, there was a group fighting him, outside of the ministry. Order of the Phoenix. Were you a part of it?”

“And why would you think such a thing of me?” Dumbledore was impassive, and Kingsley’s shoulders slumped.

“They say he was only afraid of you, and you alone,” he said. “Having you to rally around would help any group fighting him, I think. Can you at least put me in contact with whoever their leader is?”

Dumbledore walked around the desk, leaning heavily on the side. “What are you asking for, my dear boy?”

Kingsley took a deep breath. “I’d like to help. I’d like to join the Order of the Phoenix.”

 

“Alright, since we’re alone, now’s a good a time as any.”

Harry’s voice shook Draco out of the stupor he’d sunken into, staring at his mother. She was unconscious, but her hands were shaking, and her breath rattled. Madam Pomphrey had said the potion she’d gotten down her throat would help with that, but Draco had yet to see it start to work. He looked at Harry, since he might cry if he continued looking at his mother.

“What?” he asked.

“Why have you been acting weird around me?” Harry demanded, and Draco’s insides froze. Harry continued, “We were fine the first month we were friends, but since then—” He sighed. “Is it something to do with your family? With the other Slytherins? Do they not want you to be around me?”

“I don’t give a toss what the others think,” Draco snapped unthinkingly. It was a) a lie, since he cared very much what Blaise and Greg and Pansy thought, and b) a very good excuse he could now never use.

“Then what?” Harry demanded. “Hermione thinks your acting weird, too, but won’t tell me any of her theories.” _Merlin protect bushy-haired Gryffindors_ , Draco thought. Granger was quite possibly even more annoyingly insightful than Pansy, and Pansy had figured out his crush in first year, when he’d still genuinely hated Harry.

“I…” Draco licked his lips nervously.

“Don’t lie to me, please,” Harry said, shifting over to grab his arm gently. The massive dog on his legs whined.

Draco jerked his arm away. “ _Don’t_ ,” he said emphatically. “You wouldn’t touch me if—” His father had once had a business friend. Charming, half-blood but from a good family, and exactly like Draco. His father had been friendly enough with the man, but brittle and formal even after years, and Draco saw him muttering and sneering to mother about propriety and shame and family name right after the man left, every time. Draco didn’t think he would be able to stand it if Harry started to treat him like that.

“What?” Harry looked alarmed now. “Have you got some sort of disease? Were you cursed, and it spreads through touch?” Bizarrely, he wasn’t checking himself over at that question, but instead looking at Draco like—

“I’m gay,” he blurted out, and then clapped his hands over his mouth in horror.

Harry blinked. The room was silent. Draco could hear a clock ticking in the distance.

“Is…is that all?” Harry finally asked.

“Is that all?” Draco repeated, and then his voice rose to a higher pitch. “Is that _all?_ Potter, are you mad?!”

“Is it different with wizards?” Harry asked, frowning. “I know my uncle would throw a fit, but other muggles, a fair few actually, don’t really have a problem with it. I mean, some do, but they're tossers.”

“For pureblood families, it is,” Draco said firmly. The Weasely family and others his father called blood traitors probably didn’t care, and the Rosiers were alright with secret affairs as long as you passed on the pureblood name somehow. Those were the only exceptions he could think of, though.

“Not with me,” Harry said firmly, then hauled him out of his chair and half into the bed with him. Draco squeaked and tried not to blush, and the bear of a dog scrambled out of the way. If he didn’t know it was impossible, he would say the thing looked annoyed.

“You,” Harry started firmly once he was settled. “Were a pain in my arse, and a bigoted git, for an entire three years out of the four I’ve known you.”

“Well, thank you, Potter,” Draco said sarcastically. “You—”

“And _now_ ,” Harry spoke over him. “You are my closest friend, bar Hermione and Ron. You know almost as much about me as they do, and I’d like to think I know about the same about you. You’re a riot, and brilliant, and amazing with quidditch—even if you’re thoughts on the teams could use work. I don’t _care_ if you like blokes. It’s a part of you, and I like you as a whole.”

Draco’s heart had been in his throat, beating faster and faster the more Harry spoke, and his voice was breathless when he asked, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded decisively, though Draco’s heart sank at his next words. “You’re one of my best mates, and you’ll likely stay that way for a long time. You, Ron, and Hermione are like family to me, you know.”

“Right,” Draco said, fighting to keep his voice casual. “Right.” There was no way he could tell him now; he’d just have to suck it up. People did it all the time, it couldn’t be impossible, could it?

“Good,” Harry grinned, but then wrinkled his nose. “You don’t fancy Crabbe or Goyle, though, do you?”

The unexpected question made Draco snort. “No, Harry, I don’t fancy them,” he said honestly. Vince, at least, was slowly becoming a wall of muscle that might appeal to some, but Draco would always think of him as the boy who’d first introduced himself by dropping an entire tart all over both their shoes.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” Harry nodded, and then scooted over on the thin bed. “Come up here, all the way. Pomphrey’s gone to bed, I think, so you can stay here for a bit. Sit here while I fall asleep?” Draco nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “I’ll probably fall asleep quick, though, so don’t worry.” Harry settled against his pillows, and Draco leaned uncomfortably against the headboard. Movement at the edge of the bed caught his eye. The dog was watching them with beady eyes, and wearing what Draco would swear up and down was a smirk. “Night, Draco,” Harry called, burrowing under the covers.

Draco scowled at the dog, which just seemed to make the smirk grow bigger. He sighed, and smiled down at Harry even as his heart gave a pained lurch. “Night, Harry,” he said softly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! A review would be much appreciated if you made it this far!


End file.
